The day when the tears fall
by Carottal
Summary: I hate Sundays. Because Sunday is Granddaddy's day. Beware of the Peter Pan curse. Rated T for serious theme. AU (what if). Shounen ai. One shot.


_Disclaimer: I don't own anything._

_Warning: Shounen-ai (very soft), serious theme, OC narrator, AU, I'm not English! This is some kind of a what if Slade and Robin had gotten together...  
_

_A/N: So, usually, I don't mind any criticism, but here, please, don't be too mean, this fic doesn't hit very far from home.  
_

_A/N (18/05/2013 or 05/18/2013 if you're American!): I don't know what happens when you edit a story, so if the story is marked as updated... well, I didn't do many changes, so if you already read the story and don't wish to read it, don't. However, I added something in the end about answers to anonymous reviews. If you're interested, have a look at it!_

_Enjoy._

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_A mon papi._

_The day when the tears fall._

I hate Sundays.

It's not because it's the end of the week end and tomorrow school starts again. No, I hate this day because it is granddaddy's day.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love him. I remember when I was little, maybe 5 or 6, we would go on little walks with him. Sometimes, he would grab my arm, with no reason and look at me with a strange look, warm, blank and puzzled and he would tell me: "Be careful little one or you will fall of this roof." And then I would walk very carefully, wary of those invisible roofs or cliffs that only he could see. But after a moment, he would look at me and laugh a little. "It's okay Little Maple", he would say, "You're safe with grandpa and me." And Grandpa would smirk and an amused and fond light would shine in his only eye.

I really loved the way he used my nickname "little Maple". I really love him, even if I don't really know him.

In some ways it is strange that every time I think of him, I see this warm and puzzled look and then his smile. To me, it is the most mysterious person I've ever seen. A strange and fascinating man with a past he would never want to tell me. However, I've been told that when he was young, he couldn't keep still. Full of life, easy going and serious, a man who would have stopped at nothing to achieve what he wanted. I've been told some stories about his now infamous tantrums and I couldn't imagine it was this quiet and silent man they were talking about.

However, when he would leave, I would see my father exchange worried looks with my grandpa. And it hurt inside.

.

And then, one day, I was around 7, my mum took us in the car. I didn't understand, grandpa and granddaddy were supposed to come soon. But dad explained that granddaddy had a little accident and was at the hospital. That was where we were heading to. When we arrived, granddaddy was lying on the bed and grandpa was looking at him, with the look I had only seen when he was leaving on Sundays, the one that hurt.

The doctor entered the room and my dad asked what happened. I didn't understand everything because the doctor didn't speak loud enough. But then he sighed and said a bit louder. "We knew this would happen, usually it happens earlier. He is a tough one." Grandpa's eye softened a bit: "You don't need to tell me."

I believe I will never forget the look he had at this moment. A look full of love and sadness. I feared his heart had just exploded and the energy from the explosion was escaping through his eyes. That night, I cried.

.

After this day, we started meeting at their home. Grandpa would open the door. Sometimes Granddaddy opened with him. When he did, I could feel the atmosphere becoming a lot lighter. I loved it. But if I saw Grandpa's proud look, I would deflate a bit. Because somehow, it was disturbing. Every Sundays, one of my parents would put their hand on our back and tell him: "Hi! How are you? See this big girl? It is …" I wanted to cut them out. Of course he would remember, I was here every week! But I never said it aloud because I loved the look of recognition and happiness that would lit up his blank eyes. So I shut up and smiled.

One day, we arrived there and we heard screams from their flat. Grandpa opened the door. He was livid. Granddaddy was screaming: "I hate you, you hear me? I hate you!" Then he chocked "never, never, never,… Starfire!" A desperate hinge tinted Grandpa's eye. He opened the door and let us inside. "He is in his room… I'll wait here." That was the first day dad and mum didn't introduce me. It felt weird. But Granddaddy looked at me with eyes full of anger and worry: "Are you all right little one?" "Yes", I said. I wanted to add "but what is making you so angry?" but I couldn't. My throat was blocked. His glare softened "That's great, don't worry, everything's gonna be all right." It seemed he was speaking to himself instead of me. I wanted to tell him that it was okay, that grandpa was here for him, that we were here for him, that I loved him. But he smiled. This little smile he would give me when he would grab my arms some years (but that felt more like decades) ago. And the words stayed in my throat. My eyes were stinging. I smiled at him. It was my first wet smile.

When we left, I kissed Grandpa on the cheek. He smiled softly. He seemed to be so old. When I asked dad if we had missed some of grandpa's birthdays he laughed a bit. I knew it was childish, I knew it was something else, I knew it was stupid, but I knew that it was the best way to know. He told me that no one knew his age. That he could be 40 as well as 200. He looked at me in the eyes and told me that he couldn't grow old. I remember the first time I've read Peter Pan. I thought, that's true, I wanna stay a child, I don't wanna grow up. But when I looked at my father's eyes then, I understood what it all meant and I was glad I would keep getting older. I also understood that adults too had water in their eyes.

.

After some time, I couldn't understand granddaddy anymore. Not that he didn't articulate, I think he spoke really clearly but unfortunately, I didn't and still don't speak Roman. Slade spoke to him, and sometimes my father would tell him one or two words in this strange and musical language. I loved listening to them talk. But the light of joy or recognition in his eyes that I craved for were becoming scarcer and scarcer. And then, it seemed I didn't exist, that he couldn't really see me any longer. As if I was just one of these faces you see in the crowd. And it hurt so much. So the week after I stayed at home and then I stopped coming.

.

And on a bright Sunday of autumn, my mother told me on the phone that he had died. I climbed the stairs of our house, slowly. I opened the door of my room, I went into my bed, took my little white blanket that I had since I was 6 months old. And I started crying. My father came and told me that Granddaddy was better where he was now. That he had suffered enough, that by the end, he didn't know what he did any longer. That's what they always say, "he's happier where he is now", I knew it. But it worked. The sadness became bearable. My eyes dried. But instead of the sadness came a worse feeling, guilt. Because during the hardest time of his life, I wasn't there. A last tear escaped my eyes.

I don't really remember his funeral. Many people were there, his body was peaceful, and my eyes were dry.

Then it became better. My grandpa would come home on Sundays sometimes. And I would always listen to his stories about granddaddy. A little pang of guilt remained but I was happy to discover this man I had never really known. However some Sundays, mostly in autumn when the wind blew and the sun shone, I would think of those walks we had together and that my little sister can't remember, I would see the little flat and the little room where he slept, I would picture his dull eyes in his big bed. And I would feel this strange feeling of nothingness.

.

When I was 11, I went to the circus with Grandpa. I remember clearly how, when one of the trapeze jumped in the air, the figure of my granddaddy crossed the stage quietly, with his back straight, walking in the same way he did when I was little, when we walked together, when he still knew who I was and called me "little Maple". And he looked alive, sane, and happy, with a real smile on his face. At the end of the show, I told Grandpa. He looked at the stage, he looked at me, and he smiled.

"He loved circus".

And then, he cried.

I hate Sundays because Sunday is the day when the tears fall.

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A/N: This illness is not fun at all.  
Well, I'm happy to have written this fic, I really needed it at the time. I hope you liked it at least a bit! Thank you.

Oh! and I'm really not sure about what rating to put it in or the genre so if you could help me, please?

AN (18/05/2013 or 05/18/2013 if you're American!): I did a few changes but the important thing I had to ad is here: I always try to answer the reviews I get. So if you're not logged in, I'll just answer on my account. As it is quite long, I'd understand if you don't wish to read the whole thing, just skip to the part about this story (My fics, Teen Titans, the day where the tears fall), I should answer as soon as possible. I still hope you enjoyed the story!


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